Because a girl deserves some privacy. Keep it secret. Love you. Grams
I cover my mouth to mute my squeal of delight and power it up. My phone is back and fully charged! Grams rocks. I could call Keelah. Tell her the happy news. Or I could call Xavior to make sure he made it back safely to his hotel. Thanks to Tommy Tutone I know his number by heart: 867-5309. He’d want to talk to me. He’d be thrilled I called. He’d stop anything and everything for a few seconds of conversation with me. I mean, he flew all the way to California for me. But instead, I tap the movie app icon on my phone and do a search for Cinema Paradiso. I click the link to purchase. Anthony said if I watched it, I would have a window into his soul. I’d like that very much.
I pull the covers over my head so I won’t wake London. The movie is subtitled but I don’t mind reading. It’s about true love and leaving home and never being able to come back again. I don’t know why it touches my heart so deeply, but it does. After the credits roll, I cry about a million tears and drift into a somber sleep.
21
“I need coffee,” I confess to Anthony as we approach the freeway toward Los Angeles. “I couldn’t sleep last night.”
He frowns. “I don’t allow my girls to have caffeine until they’re—” He pauses. I see his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep, Tiffany. I couldn’t, either.” He sighs. “How much sleep do you think you got?”
“Forty-five minutes. Maybe.”
“Ouch.” He makes a sharp turn into a parking lot with a Starbucks. “We’ll keep this between you and me.”
He pulls into the drive-through, and within a moment, we’re both sipping on caramel Frappuccinos. Caffeine begins to course through my veins, lifting the fatigue. After I slurp down the last bit of my grande, sugary goodness, the car ride to the express DNA facility becomes excruciatingly quiet. Like the kind of quiet you’d expect when our sun finally explodes and Earth implodes thus reducing billions and billions of years of evolution to random particles of dust floating through space. Yep. It’s basically that quiet. Maybe he’s relieved at the prospect of me not being his official offspring and all he can do to contain his excitement is be deafeningly nonverbal.
“Could we listen to the radio or something?” I finally ask after a half hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic on our way to Los Angeles.
As he moves to click on the radio, his phone rings. The voice of an Indian lady with a heavy accent booms through the car speakers. I try to pay attention but the conversation is way over my head. A lot of legal mumbo jumbo like legal custody versus sole custody versus physical custody versus blah blah blah. Also, he’s cursing...a lot. Not a good sign for his Jehovah’s Witness-ish-ness. Margaret would be all kinds of not pleased. Pumpkin would be scarred for life.
“What do you mean he would have a right? So we keep the kid and pay him?”
The kid?
My phone chimes. A text from Xavior. I exhale nervously and lift it to read: You guys headed to the express DNA facility yet?
I text back: En route.
His reply: Good. I found something late last night I wanted you to see.
A photo comes through via text. I click on the screen. It’s an old photo of my mom. Her face is so young, bright and happy. She’s sitting on the edge of a bed, holding her guitar, eyes closed, playing. A Happy New Year party hat on top of her head. I raise an eyebrow as I study the photo. She’s holding the guitar in her right hand. But...Mom played left-handed guitar after she broke her hand. My head instantly starts aching. Pressure building. Combustion...imminent.
I turn to Anthony. Traffic has started to move again and we’ve begun to pick up speed. He’s no longer on the phone with the lawyer lady. Just staring straight ahead, concentrating on the road.
“Anthony?” I say, placing my hand over my heart as if that can somehow stop it from beating so fast.
“Hmm?”
“When did you meet my mom?”
“January? Yeah. It was right after the New Year.”
I sit up, palms profusely sweating. I wipe them dry on my Curington khakis. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Yes. Why do you ask?”
But before I can answer, the lawyer lady calls back. She and Anthony get back into another discussion of big words.
I text Xavior back: Do you remember when my mom broke her hand?
A moment passes. I wipe my sweaty palms on my khakis again. The seconds passing are absolute torture. C’mon! Text me back!
Finally, after what feels like an eternity times infinity, Xavior replies: Can’t say that I do. She broke her hand?
Omigosh! Omigosh!
Mom wore a cast for almost two months after she broke her hand. Xavior would have known that if they were dating around the time I was conceived. But they weren’t! They couldn’t have been.
I turn to Anthony and imagine us both on the stage of the Maury Povich show. Maury peels open the manila envelope. The crowd is eerily quiet. Anthony biting his nails. Me biting mine.
“Anthony Stone,” Maury says slowly. “You are the father!”
And he is. I know he is.
* * *
The DNA testing facility looks and feels like your average doctor’s office. I’m sitting in the waiting area while Anthony’s in the back getting his portion of the DNA test. Whatever that is. Blood draw? Brain scan. I want to talk to him. I have to talk to him. Tell him what I know. The dates don’t add up. Xavior definitely dated my mom but I’m sure it was before she met Anthony.
“Tiffany Sly?” A pretty blonde woman is standing at the doorway that leads into the facility, holding a clipboard. “We’re ready for you now.”
* * *
The DNA test is pretty chill. The lady with the clipboard puts gloves on, reads something to me about information being admissible in a court of law, then takes a long Q-tip and swabs the inside of both my cheeks.
“And that’s that. All finished.” She stuffs the Q-tip into a plastic bag and seals it shut.
“You don’t have to take blood or anything?”
“Buccal swabs are preferred over blood samples these days. A few seconds and you’re done. Easy peasy.” She stuffs the plastic bag holding the swab into what looks to be a small express mailing box and seals that shut, too.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Anthony: One of my patients has a postsurgery infection and needs an emergency hysterectomy. Darryl is on his way to pick you up and take you back to school. I have to run. We’ll talk about the results when I get home. Don’t worry about anything. Have fun at school. Dad.
Have fun at school? Is he insane? I want to scream at the top of my lungs. Throw stuff. Shout obscenities.
“Are you okay?” the blonde lady asks me, and politely tilts her head the way Margaret does.
A giant lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow it away but it’s no use. Sobs erupt out of me. I attempt to muffle my cries as much as I can, ashamed that I’ve been reduced to public wailing, suffering and humiliation. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” The lady looks like she wants to hug me or do something to help me. Finally she says, “Maybe you should call your mom?”
I sniff. Ashamed to admit I’m mom-less.
“Call her, okay? I’ll give you some privacy.” The lady quickly exits the room, leaving me to suffer alone.
With shaking hands, I dial the closest thing I can think of to a mom.
“Hello? Tiffany?” Margaret answers sweetly.
“Margaret,” I start. “Um, I know Pumpkin doesn’t like long car rides. I know that you’re probably really busy. But is there any way you could pick me up at the DNA testing place?”
“Tiffany, sweetheart? What’s wrong?”
“Margaret? C-can you p-please take me to the airport?” I sob.
“A
irport? Tiffany, why? What’s going on?”
“I wanna go back to Chicago,” I cry. “Please, Margaret? Let me go back home.”
“Tiffany, I’m on my way, okay? Let me call our sitter. Hold tight, my love. I’m on the way.”
* * *
I’m sitting outside on the curb, backpack strapped tightly to my shoulders, when Margaret arrives sans Pumpkin, her wet hair pulled into a messy bun, suggesting I called her at the exact moment she’d gotten out of the shower. A simple pair of gray lounge pants, a T-shirt and sandals manages to look classy and very rich on Margaret. I stand as she approaches, clutching her cell in one hand. Without so much as a word she rushes for me and pulls me in tightly. Holding me. Rubbing my back with her free hand. The everlasting lump in my throat breaks free once again and I cry on her shoulder, grasping on to her like my life depends on it.
“He doesn’t want me, Margaret. He doesn’t really want me.”
“Tiffany,” she says soothingly. “Don’t say that. Anthony loves you.”
“He doesn’t.” I cry. “He probably thinks Mom was the biggest mistake of his life. Wishes he’d never cheated on you with a random woman and almost destroyed your family.”
“A random woman?” Margaret pulls away and stares at me, perplexed. “Tiffany Sly, where did you get that idea? Anthony was madly in love with your mom. Did he not tell you that?”
I shake my head.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Well, then, I’ll tell you. You deserve the truth. It’s your right, Tiffany. Anthony was madly in love with your mom.”
“He was? Did you—” I wipe my eyes with the bottom portion of my polo “—know he was cheating on you?”
“Cheating?” She shakes her head. “Anthony is many, many things but a cheater he is not.”
“Why does London think he cheated on you?”
Margaret shrugs. “Why does London think she has to brush her hair at least eighty-seven strokes a day so it can be supershiny?” Margaret sits on the curb of the parking lot and I sit beside her.
“So then he didn’t cheat on you?”
“We were on a break while he was in Chicago. He and I started dating when we were in high school and got engaged our senior year in college, but during his residency, we both decided we wanted time to make sure this was the right thing. We were still close. Best friends, to be honest. We talked every day and kept in touch while he was away, but everything changed when out of nowhere he started talking about one of his patients all the time. She went from patient to friend in a matter of days. Next thing I knew, he and his new friend were basically inseparable.”
“So my mom wasn’t the other woman,” I say more to myself than to Margaret. I knew she wouldn’t have been the other woman. I knew it.
“I mean, to me she was. But technically, no. He had every right to date. I was dating, too. Here and there, but nothing serious. His was serious.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “And then I got the call that your mom was pregnant.”
“Wait. You knew about that, too?”
“Of course I knew. Anthony would never keep something like that from me. Terrified I’d lost him, I flew out to Chicago and asked him to make a choice. Her or me. No more ‘on a break.’ Engagement back on. Anthony reassured me it was us he wanted, too. Told me he’d already broken things off and had asked Imani to get an abortion.” Margaret heaves a heavy sigh. “Tiffany, I have replayed that conversation in my head every day. Relived that moment. Every day. For years. I could have said, ‘No, don’t do that. Call her, support her, be there for her.’ I should have demanded that. But I was overcome with jealousy. So you wanna know what I said?” Tears spill down her cheeks. “Nothing. I said nothing.”
“Don’t cry, Margaret,” I say as kindly as I can, even though I’m crying, too, imagining a young mom, all alone, the guy she’d loved completely deserting her in her time of need.
Margaret wipes her face and looks over at me, warm brown eyes red and pained. Face tear-streaked. “Can you imagine how Anthony and I felt when Imani got in touch with us? Can you imagine our joy? I cried every day. I would turn on the bathwater so the girls wouldn’t hear me cry, but I was so happy. It was like Jehovah God was giving us this beautiful blessing. This chance to right our wrong. To complete our family. Jehovah God has a plan for everything.”
“Don’t say that,” I snap. “Don’t make it seem like ‘God’ killed my mom to complete your family. God had nothing to do with my mom dying. She just died. Because that’s what people do. They die.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret replies softly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“But it all worked out.” I shrug. “You got the guy. You beat my mom. And now she’s dead and you get to keep her kid, too.”
“Tiffany...”
“Here’s a thought.” I stand. “Maybe Anthony’s so damn miserable because he missed out on the chance to be with the girl he really loved. Maybe he can’t get over the fact that he made the wrong choice. You ever think about that?”
I see all remaining color drain from Margaret’s pale face and immediately wish I could push a button, which would allow time to rewind about thirty-five seconds, so I could take back what I just said. She looks young and vulnerable in this moment and I can’t help but now imagine a young Margaret, her “on a break” fiancé calling her and telling her that his new patient/friend is pregnant with his baby. The pain she must have felt. The agony.
“Margaret,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay, Tiffany. You’re upset with me. I understand.”
“Omigosh, no. Margaret, you’ve been nothing but amazing to me. I’m not upset with you.” I wipe my eyes. “That was so wrong what I said. Please forgive me.”
“Forgiven. Forgiven a thousand times over and over again.” She stands and reaches for my hands. Squeezes them lovingly. “Now will you forgive me? Sixteen years ago I said nothing when I should have said something. Tiffany, I’m sorry. You could’ve had a dad. You should have had a dad.”
“I wanted one.” I’m crying again because I know it’s true. “All these years I really wanted a dad.”
“Tiffany, you’ve always had one. Anthony and I, we didn’t know if you’d have been a boy or a girl but we talked about you. Constantly. When the girls played, we imagined you playing with them. And I promise you, at night when we prayed, we prayed to the soul that we thought was on the other side. We have always loved you. He’s always loved you.”
I stare out into the parking lot. Cars come and go. “Maybe you love me. You’re a good person. But who does he love? Seems like the only thing he cares about is his job. And his rules.”
“He wasn’t always like this. He’s changed. Maybe part of the reason you’re here is to help him find his way back.”
I turn to her. “Why do you put up with it? With him?”
“Because sometimes people lose their way. And it’s up to the people who love them to help them find their way back. Love isn’t some warm and fuzzy feeling. It’s action. It’s work. It’s commitment.” Margaret’s phone buzzes. She checks the caller ID. “Give me one second?”
I nod.
She slides her finger across the phone to answer it and takes a few steps away for privacy, though I can still hear her quite clearly. “Hi, Karen, everything okay?...What? Ambulance?”
My heart starts to pound in my chest. I swallow, imagining the worst. “Is Pumpkin okay?”
Margaret gives me a reassuring nod as she listens intently. “Jehovah God, have mercy...Okay.” She nods again. “Thank you so much for calling. I’m gonna take Tiffany to the hospital. Would it be okay to stay a few more hours?...Oh, thank you, Karen. We’ll see you soon. Kiss Pumpkin for me.” Margaret turns to me, her eyes clouded with worry.
“What’s wrong? Why are you taking me to the hospital?”
“Tiffa
ny...” Margaret starts slowly. “An ambulance just rushed Marcus away.”
I cover my mouth. “Is he okay? Margaret, please tell me he’s okay.”
“Karen only saw them from the window. She said it looked dire.”
“Omigosh. Is he dead?”
“Sweetheart, I don’t know.”
“Can we go now? Please?”
“Yes, of course, Tiffany. Let’s hurry.”
22
By the time Margaret and I make it to Genesis West in Simi Valley we find out that Marcus has been helicoptered to Children’s Hospital in LA. We immediately hop in the car and get back on the freeway.
It’s an hour and thirty minutes before we make it into LA and exit the 101, an additional fifteen minutes before Margaret actually pulls up to Children’s Hospital Los Angeles and exactly six minutes on top of that before we make it to the front counter at the check-in. By this time, Jo has been in touch. I reread some of our text exchange as a kindly Hispanic woman prints visitors’ passes for Margaret and me.
Jo: Marcus is in surgery right now.
Me: What happened?
Jo: Heart too weak to pump blood effectively. Surgery is to install a left ventricular assist device. Called an LVAD for short.
Me: So, then he’ll be okay?
Jo: If he makes it out of surgery.
I reread her last text. If he makes it out of surgery. One very important word—if. Jo’s ever so subtle way of letting me know that today might be the day we say goodbye to Marcus McKinney.
Margaret listens to instructions on how to follow the green lines on the hospital floor to the elevator and I glance around. There are sick children in wheelchairs, that signature “I’m fighting for my life” bald head that Mom used to sport. Some walking around slowly, pushing IVs, loving family members standing in support with them. I remember being that family member. Helping Mom take painful steps. Lifting her spirits as much as I could, even though when you’re dying, death is always in the air. Every thought ends with death. “Wanna go have a snack, Mom?” I’d ask. She’d nod and I’d picture her gravestone. “Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain, Tiff.” She’d speak barely above a whisper and I’d imagine it raining as they lowered her casket into the ground. Everybody would send messages on Facebook and email. Flowers. Precondolences. “Please know we’re praying for you!!!” They’d add a gaggle of exclamation marks to seal their point, an emoticon of praying hands added at the end of the sentence for good measure. But when it came to being by Mom’s side, to cleaning up the sick that erupted out of her body, to wiping away her tears...
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 25